Wrath of the War Pigs
by Cracked Bat
Summary: The super exciting conclusion to the Pig King Saga. Rated T for increased violence


MEANWHILE, BACK AT THE RANCH… 

The summer of 201X was getting very interesting indeed. And by interesting, I mean smart-mouthed, militant pigs, destined lineage, visions, swashbuckling, psychic powers and shoot-outs…well, you read Fall of the Pig King and Against the Pigs. Instead of a recap, I will go on to explain what I didn't reveal but was very important nonetheless.

Even as Ricky and Krause landed in a snow bank in Winters, legions upon legions of hogs prepared for what would be a well-planned worldwide purge of the human race led by a shadow from the past. Pigs across Eagleland that had never once thought of biting a human or carrying a spear heard a strange calling from the desert. As one poetic pig later wrote:

_He came to our farm again,_

_The big fat man with a friendly grin._

_He wasn't like the other mean two-legged dude,_

_He spoke of things like revolt and no more servitude._

_He says, "Come join me in my rebellion for good,_

_The humans enslaved us, raised us for their food!"_

_He says, "The wind is changing direction, however!"_

_He says, "Take up arms against evil, and we'll rule in peace forever!"_

_He stirred my brothers with amazing power,_

_The all of us knew that it was the hour_

_To rise up against the wicked men with hands_

_That stole our right to rule these lands!_

_He says we must fight,_

_And indeed, he is right,_

_But how can we fight men with their big trucks and loud guns?_

_He laughs, "Come to Cactus Desert! You'll reach it today if you move yer buns!"_

_He fades away as I awake,_

_But I knew for sure that it's no mistake._

_He is the Good Human, and he tells us we can be free_

_He has a new soldier, and that soldier is me._

The great migration of hogs in the desert made world news. Biologists were confounded, office workers gossiped over water coolers, Republicans blamed vast left-wing conspiracies, Democrats blamed the irresponsible president, animal activists blamed loathsome, repressive farmers and everybody else just shrugged a lot. Yet soon enough, there wouldn't be one creature in the world that could remain neutral.

It was on the very morning that Ricky, Krause and Brandon crawled from a manhole in a café in Fourside that the first casualties of the Great Purge occurred. A group of angry farmers rallied a small farming town to go and hunt down the runaway pigs and bring them back. Camera crews from Worldwide News and Eagleland Free Press followed their progress through the desert carefully, and so the whole world saw the opening bout. At breakfast time, a whole legion of pigs ambushed the farmers with swords, spears and bows. The camera crews scrambled to get as much of the carnage live on international TV as possible, but failed, because they didn't live. At long last, horrified viewers around the world saw a big fat hog in battle armor grab a microphone and speak to the screen.

"Okay, zoom in a little…does this helmet look okay on me? Would I get a better effect if I held up this gun, or my bloody sword?"

"Sir, you're on the air."

The hog shot an embarrassed double take to a comrade, who nudged him comfortingly. He nodded, turned back to the camera, bared his stubby tusks and twisted his face into a madman's sneer. "Hi, you stinky humans! What you just saw was not staged! We hogs are sick of being treated like filth and we've prolonged our revolt for too long now! The winds are changing direction, and the war pigs will destroy all fools who dare stand against them! Let this little skirmish be a warning to your wretched little hides. Submit to the power of the Pig King…or else!"

A collective squeal of laughter arose, and the camera turned around jerkily to survey the aftermath of the deadly battle. Shocked audiences saw men and women strewn around while armed pigs ran about, flinging torches at random and sticking weapons into their wounded foes. Finally the little pig lost his grip on the camera and consequently broke it. A screen appeared that said, in big friendly letters: WE'RE HAVING PROBLEMS.

No kidding.

**CHAPTER 1SMILES AND TEARS**

It didn't take very long for Ricky, Krause and Brandon to get updated with the recent events painstakingly explained in the previous two pages. Everybody in the café seemed pumped and ready to answer the call to arms when it came and eagerly told the three newcomers everything. They were in Fourside, as they suspected. Riots, looting and general mayhem followed in the wake of the live broadcast of the massacre, but the police had it mostly under control. Espeon was stunned, then overjoyed to see the twins still alive. Krause enthusiastically told a slightly exaggerated account of their adventures since they last met while only taking maybe eight or nine breaths, and managed to enthrall everyone in the café. Ricky cut in when he got to the incident at Sulfur Spring, and the other two got the message and focused on a new hope of reuniting.

"Uh…Espeon, where's Uncle Flint?" Krause asked after a few minutes of merriment. An evil silence filled the café, and the patrons who had been listening and commenting on their stories backed off. Espeon's mouth opened halfway, but didn't break the gloomy calm. Krause couldn't take all the quiet. For one moment, he lost that little bit of dignity he still had and broke down bawling on the dirty slate floor. The Ricky before the adventure would've cried with him, maybe even louder, but this Ricky only grimaced and dug his nails into his palms. Experience was already hardening him, he thought grimly. He and Krause were the last in the line of the Chosen, the only ones with the right blood to fulfill some kind of screwball prophecy told by the ghost of an arrogant bee that would return peace to a crazy world. It was all because of the pigs. Memories of Uncle Flint flashed through his brain like a vivid silent film. The same Uncle Flint who took them in as babies to save them from the regrouping forces of darkness, raised them like their father, defended them from evil and belted them when they drank his moonshine, was murdered. Krause embraced him, and he embraced back. If only they still had a chance…

Soon the four of them were sitting around a table in the corner, Krause sobbing into a ridiculously oversized cappuccino, Brandon comforting him while sipping a creamy Latte, Espeon looking at his plain black coffee and Ricky contented with staring purposefully at his friends.

"So, what happened?" Ricky asked Espeon.

Espeon sipped his drink and nodded. "Flint went down fighting. He must've taken out a dozen pigs with his bare hands…never seen anyone fight like that before. Like the Devil was inside him! Imagine how scared we felt when he knocked us over in the passageway while he was running away from something. We made it to the bridge, and then their king came out. He said he could handle him, but he told us to run," his head went downcast. "I'm…sorry. I turned around at the last moment and saw the two of them fall with the bridge."

Krause looked up for a moment between sobs. "The pig king's dead?"

Espeon nodded.

"But that ain't stopping the pigs, is it, Espeon?" Ricky said.

Espeon shook his head, then leaned forward and spoke softly. "The worst is coming fast, Ricky. I don't know how somebody like you got the responsibility of saving the world. Prophecies can suck. I've seen it, Ricky. I hope I can help by telling a story about my childhood."

With that, he took a long gulp of coffee, told the others to get comfortable, and began in a soft tone.

Before his grandma took him in, Espeon's parents were very liberal with him. Liberal, meaning his father was too busy smuggling arms from Scaraba for an unsuccessful rebel faction and his mother was too busy committing adultery to look after him. So he spent much of his days strolling the famous avenues of Summers, playing with kids in back alleys, listening to sailors' stories on the docks and running errands to support local tourist traps. Although he sometimes felt as if he were missing a family life, he would tell anybody who would ask him how he felt that he was just peachy.

There was a man who sat on the steps of the Stoic Club on occasion, watching the breaking waves while apparently muttering things to somebody nobody else could see. He was very tall, always wore a beret and a messy goatee and rolled a fat cigar through his teeth like a toothpick. Locals and tourists alike walked a little faster when they passed him, and Espeon occasionally heard about him when he eavesdropped on adults.

"That horrible lanky man who sits on the steps of the Stoic Club?"

"Oh, he's a creep all right! It's bad for everybody's business, I tell you!"

"The police should pick up weirdoes like that right away and put him where all the misfits should go – prison!"

After that, there was usually a murmur of agreement before the conversation went on to more important things, like what to wear to Sandra's dinner party or the latest fad in gourmet gelatin. One day when Espeon was passing by the Stoic Club, he saw the misfit sitting on the rail, rolling a cigar between his fingers. It was too late for Espeon to pretend not to notice him, because the man was looking directly at him.

"Boy, come here."

Espeon approached him like one would approach an alligator with a toothache. There were dark rings around the man's eyes, and his tan was far weaker than usual. "What's your name, kid?"

He stuttered a bit. "My…my friends call me Espeon."

"Some people call me Jacques, but you don't have to call me that if you can think of a better name. But more to the point, I see you walk by the Stoic Club quite a lot. Are you interested in the things that occur behind these hallowed doors, Espeon?"  
Who knew what in the world went on behind those hollowed doors? Nobody in the membership ever talked about it, and everybody else was too afraid to ask. One theory was drug trading, others said it was a weird cult headquarters, some said it was a conspirator's organization and one guy said aliens. Espeon couldn't deny that he was intrigued. Maybe this weirdo could tip him off.

"Yes, Mr. Jacques."

Jacques only nodded and motioned for Espeon to sit. "Here's the secret, Espeon," he bent over and whispered into the boy's ear. "We drink water, stare at a rock and philosophize."

Espeon's heart sunk. They were just a bunch of intellectual morons after all. "What the…sorry, sir, I was trying to say is, why are you telling me this?"

The man took a drag on his cigar, then spit out a smoke ring that turned yellow, then red, then blue before riding off on the wind. "I've got a gift, Espeon. A sixth sense if you will. That's why I sit on the steps and watch everybody pass by. Sometimes I can 'see' what they did last night. Sometimes I 'hear' what they think about a freak like me sitting on the steps. Other times I can 'feel' an aura about them, one of good, evil or general stupidity. But, quite rarely, I 'learn' some very fascinating things about somebody by just looking at them."

This guy was definitely cracked, and he wasn't even answering his question. Espeon was coming up with an excuse to run away as fast as possible, but Jacques went on. "You will accomplish great things before you kick the old bucket, Espeon. The feeling is almost overwhelming!"

"Really?"

"Yes, boy! But don't get too excited," no problem, thought Espeon. The man's voice softened, but also took a tone of both excitement and urgency. "Last night I was staring at the rock, the water clearing my mind. A vision came from the spirit realm, a vision as vivid and terrifying as anything in this material world! A great swirling mass in a void, a great ruined power in the agony of defeat! It howled and babbled like a madman, it released negative energy in great waves of darkness. The dark soon swallowed everything and terror was the only thing I could feel, but in the end was light. The entity was gone, and there was hope anew. A voice rose from the peace. It said, 'The war against Giygas is over.' A long time passed, and the light began to dim. Something seemed to stir in the shadows around me, and the darkness quickly rose again. 'What is this, O disembodied voice? Tell me!' I pleaded. The shadows themselves seemed to stir, then a hog greater and fouler than any I had ever seen formed from the very essence of the darkness. It bore the grotesque face of grinning fat man and carried a blazing torch that cast a sickly red light on the other shapes in the dark. The shapes distorted, then drew together. I gasped, for they all combined and the evil entity formed again from the mass of shadow!"

Espeon was convinced all right. Convinced that this man should sign into the funny farm. But this story was entertaining, if more than a little weird, so he asked, "What happened next, Mr. Jacques?"

"The voice spoke. 'The horrors of hell retreat, but they never surrender. The blood of the Chosen must cleanse the evils of the universe once again. When good fights evil, who do you believe will triumph? Do you believe that the light will overcome the darkness in the end of all things?' I wasn't meant to answer. The vision faded, and I knew…I knew a great struggle had just passed, and another was coming all too soon. Espeon, my boy, I believe you will be a player in this struggle. I saw something about you long ago that stumped me, but I have faith that you will be very important in the years to come, for good or ill, I don't yet know. You have much ahead of you, so don't waste a moment," Jacques placed his hand on Espeon's shoulder. "May the good spirits favor you."

The boy muttered a thank-you and briskly retreated. The more he thought about what the man said, the more he began to think that there may be some reason to what he said. Those eyes were intelligent – even Espeon knew that – and he spoke with a passion that chilled his bones when he reflected on it later. He never saw Jacques again, but he began to take prophecies and paranormal more seriously. Maybe the funny farm found Jacques before he found it, or maybe he went off on a self-possessed quest to destroy the evil he seemed to believe in.

All eyes were on Ricky now. Nobody but Ricky heard it, but the eerie, broken melody of the Sound Stone floated out of his pack. He gulped. Time to let the ol' cat out of the bag.

"Espeon, we made it to second sanctuary…"

"Yeah?"

"I didn't get the melody."

Espeon took it better than they expected, because he managed not to choke on his coffee. "Ricky, I've been an adventurer on and off since I was old enough to drink. I got more losses than wins under my gun belt. You'll pull through, kid."  
"Espeon," Ricky said, voice raising, "you don't get it, do you? You grew up on prophecies and all that crap. You should know more about this than I do. The Sound Stone is the only thing that can stop these pigs from taking over the world! I was told to go to four power spots and hear the melody of the Earth, or some crap like that, to be some kind of Chosen One and set things straight! If you didn't hear em the first time, I missed one of those freakin' power spots!"

"Ricky!" said Brandon in the firm voice of a stressed-out high school counselor. "We don't need fighting at a time like this!"

Ricky went on without even shooting an angry glance at Brandon. "How can y'all sit back and say this is okay? You don't friggin' understand! There's no way I can go back to Sulfur Spring! I can't finish the melody now! Everybody's gonna – "

"Shut up, Ricky!" it was Krause's voice this time. He had been uncharacteristically quiet the whole time, but now he was on his feet, looking up at his big little brother with a defiant, but caring gleam in his eyes. "You're the only one who can save the world now. Sure, I help you a little, but you can shoot fire out of your fingers and heal people, for crying out loud! If I didn't know better, I'd bow at your sacred feet and call you Jesus Christ! I always knew you were fated to do big things, even before that bee gave you that rock! I follow you into hell because I _believe_ in you! You can't give up on everything like this! What would Flint do?"

Ricky was still for awhile. His eyes, welling up with tears, shifted from Krause to the others, who were doing lots of eye shifting, too. He answered.

"He'd remember the past, do what he could with what he had, make sure the future works out, drink lots of beer…I don't know what's gonna happen next."

Krause smiled. "Same here, Ricky. But you can't call it quits, 'cuz the world's too much to lose. I'm not scared of dying no more. We've gone too far to turn back."

"Krause, the Sound Stone was our hope. The world's hope! It was our only way to beat them, you don't under-"

"A rock? You put more faith in a pretty rock than yourself. That's kinda pathetic. Who's really saving the world, you, or that stone? I believe in you, Ricky. I believe in you 'till however this one ends. We can win if we want, or try and die saving the world. All I'm asking is that you believe in _yourself_. Can you do it?"

Ricky leaned back in the squeaky chair, quiet on the inside and out. For anyone not nominated savior of the world, using a musical rock to save the world from a pig army would sound possible only after eating a questionable mushroom or two. It was a laugh at first, but the more and more Ricky carried it, he realized in a strange way that it all did make sense. Finally, he said the truth. "No, I think I'll need your help."

Krause laughed out loud and rubbed his filthy, matted hair. Ricky managed a grin. That glimmer of hope inside him was a little stronger. Still, that horrible doubt chewed at his gut. How could they win? From all that he saw, he believed the prophecy so far. Would it all end that way? Humans across the world making stands against the hogs, only to be annihilated by what the crazy prophet saw while tripping in the Stoic Club? The epic struggle would be forgotten as the pigs destroyed everything the humans made and turned the world into a mud hole. You have to admit, though, that would be one heck of a way to go.

"Well said!" Brandon said, and stood, thrusting his weapon in the air. The simple gesture stirred the crowd that had gathered to watch the drama, and it raised a strong amen. Ricky reddened sheepishly. Brandon cleared his throat in apology and lowered his gun. Espeon chuckled in spite of himself. This was the boy who represented mankind's hope against the hordes of darkness? He was gonna need all the help he could get…

**CHAPTER 2PORK N' BEANS**

Fourside opened up before the twins' anxious eyes.

"Holy smokes…" Krause said.

Ricky sniffed and made a face that looked like he regretted it. "You mean holy smokes, exhaust, paint, oil, sewage, trash and roadkill. And hippies."

They weren't in the best part of Fourside. The small apartments and businesses lining the road looked long overdue for repairs. Most of the cars drove like they wanted to go somewhere else as fast as possible. In addition to the shifty, desperate people lurking around on the sidewalks, an aging hippie lay on a nearby bench, strumming a guitar with his toes and humming something.

"This part of town's really gone under since old man Monotoli died," Brandon said, regarding the hippie on the bench. "If that guy was good for something, he kept the city clean and the people working."

"Do people actually live here?" Ricky asked Brandon as a siren blared a few blocks away.

"A couple million. And that's just in the metropolitan area."

Krause scoffed. "No way! Even if there was that many people, they'd never be able to count 'em all!"

Espeon led them along the sidewalk while Brandon explained about how government officials used computers to count people so they knew how little money they could get away with spending without destroying the city's infrastructure and just how high they could hike the taxes without inspiring rioters. A couple minutes later, Espeon stopped in front of a small building at an intersection that the rat race seemed to ignore. With its weathered brick façade, dirty windows and a rusty skeleton where an awning once hung above the door, it looked as inviting as the sign in front of it.

"No unauthorized parking," Krause read aloud. "Violating vehicles will be blown apart by rocket-propelled grenades. Have a great day."

"Thanks, but how come you read it aloud?" Brandon asked.

Krause looked at Brandon as if he'd just been asked the stupidest question in the world. "Because."

"Sorry. Should've known…"

"You sure this is the place, Espeon?" Ricky asked, realizing that the large pothole on the street next to the sign might not be a pothole at all.

"Does this look like a place I'd forget?" Espeon said, and casually walked up to a door facing an alley. The others followed after some hesitation. Espeon knocked three times. After faint footsteps from the other side, a growly voice usually reserved for monster truck rallies and cheap beer commercials answered.

"Who is it?"

"Espeon. I came with some friends."

"Oh really? What did you have for lunch?"

"Pork n' beans. What else?"

A panel in the door slid open, revealing not the monster truck rally commentator that Ricky and Krause expected, but a skinny, red-haired boy sporting a powerful nose and a blue stocking cap. To Brandon, he looked like a slightly disoriented frat boy who had decided to spend his summer break hiding out in a seedy old building.

"Espeon! You're back, man!" he exclaimed in a much less husky voice. Espeon nodded and smiled back. The boy scanned the newcomers and finally opened the door, not forgetting to slide the panel shut before closing it. They were ushered into a plain, but clean, entry hall with a few doors and a stairway leading up to the next floor. The boy stopped short of the stairs and turned to everybody.

"My name's Duster, if you can dig it," he said with a strange but appealing accent that sounded like west coast and southern rolled together. "I think we'll be needing ya'lls names before we can go any further."

"I'm Krause Lee!" Krause said before Espeon could open his mouth. "This is my brother, Ricky and that guy's Brandon."

Duster's jaw slacked as he turned to Ricky. "For real?"

Ricky almost answered, but Duster wasn't about to let him. "Judas Priest on a carousel! Did you really take out a starman single-handedly?"

"Yeah…I think that's what it said it was," Ricky answered, scratching the back of his neck with an awkward grin.

"Awesome! Espey and Cecilia said you were dead!" Duster laughed. "But I knew you was probably still out there somewhere! You sure smell like you're dead, though…"

"Did you say Cecilia?" Ricky asked before Duster could spit out another word. Duster bit his lip and rolled his eyes in thought for a second.

"Yeah. How come?"

"She's the chick who saved our lives back at the caves!" said Krause.

"How come she said we're dead?" Ricky added.

"Why don't we go ask her?" Espeon suggested.

"Good idea," Brandon added as usefully as possible, not wanting to be left out of the conversation. They followed Duster up the creaky steps and into a modest apartment room. An orange sofa and refrigerator sat against one wall, behind an ancient footlocker that doubled as both a coffee table and computer desk. A poster portraying DCMC at a recent gig hung above the most tired TV Krause had ever seen. The scene would've been a bit depressing if it weren't for the twins' old beagle, Boney, rushing to meet them. Cecilia soon joined the welcoming party. She wore a pair of shorts and a tank top instead of her military attire, much to Ricky and Krause's delight.

"I didn't think I'd ever see you two again!" Cecilia said, smiling, her tone much gentler than the one she used in the mine. Ricky felt a twang of suspicion. A few days ago he was staring down the barrel of her .357, and now she greeted him like a little brother. She gave the twins quick but strong hugs before Duster introduced her to Brandon. Duster opened the fridge and produced a six-pack of ginger ale while Cecilia and Espeon cleared off the footlocker/table.

"I hope ya'll like ginger ale. It's the only thing they keep 'round here," said Duster as he handed Ricky and Krause their drinks.

"What is this place, anyway?" Krause asked.

Duster explained with uncanny openness that he was a professional thief working for a crime ring, and he even gave Cecilia a look of mock offense when she added that he was only a self-proclaimed professional. It turned out that the international underworld had known about the pig threat for some time, and had even supplied some of their sophisticated equipment, although Duster said that even at the highest levels, not much was known about the groups' relationship. His boss had assigned him to the mine when word was that the pigs were hunting for a whole cave made of gold rumored to be in the area. He was to collaborate with a few paid-off pigs to load a good amount into a few trucks and ship them to Fourside. It wasn't long before Duster realized that the pigs worshipped a slobbering, maniacal, overdressed brute of a hog that planned on destroying everything good in the world.

"I'm a thief," he said. "But I _do_ have a soul, even if it ain't very big. If you can dig it, of course."  
Ricky, Krause and Brandon confirmed that they dug it, and he continued. His plan was to wait until the gold was found, steal enough to carry and get the hell out of Dodge. He wasn't about to do anything else for a crime ring that supported the end of the world.

"Before the pigs found me, I was going nowhere," Cecilia said. "I think I was happy to join the pigs at first. I was just a tough lil' whiskey-drinkin' girl on the streets without any hope or future. They look for people just like me."

"They got me, too," Brandon said. "It was a good thing Krause set me straight."

"Heck yeah!" Krause agreed.

"I got promoted pretty quick to overseer of the lower level of the big mining operation," she smiled. "I guess the Pig King, long live his name, didn't want to trust the mine to some stinky little piggy."

Espeon slapped her leg. "I told you I didn't want to hear you say anything about him living at all."

Cecilia slapped his leg back harder. "It was hard working with those pigs. Sometimes I wondered if destroying the humans who turned me out was the best way to solve my problems. Not every person I came across in my life was as evil as I was supposed to think, and you can't avoid the fact that pigs just smell."

She turned to the twins with a sad grimace. "I don't think I would've shot you even if that thing was loaded."

Ricky flushed and shifted his eyes. He still heard the anger in her voice as she pulled the trigger. But without her, another part of him thought, you'd have never made it this far.

"Anyway," Espeon said, "the base was in chaos at that point. The pigs were scattered and leaderless, and their king fell. Some pigs probably caught wind of her letting you two go, and they were about to kill her. You were lucky SD turned left instead of right, or we'd have never seen you."  
"You really shouldn't have."

"You called for help and we, total strangers and enemies, decided that you needed help. We went out of our way and killed some pigs for you despite my bad shoulder. Now you tell us we shouldn't have? Where I'm from, that's called ungratefulness."

"Cut it out."

"After we rescued her, she realized that it was probably a good idea to run away too. She knew that Duster had an armored truck and the garage was nearby. There was a fight on the stairs, and SD fell behind. The little man went down fighting, down to the last arrow. Sad I never got to know the guy, but traveling will never be the same without him."

Duster interrupted the respectful silence that followed. "So I was in the garage taking out a brigade of highly-trained pigs with only a tire iron. (Espeon: You were sneaking into your truck in the middle of an empty garage! Duster: Shuddap!) Just then, a guy with a whip, a blonde in uniform and a dog run up to me, you dig? First, I was thinking the cast of that new Indiana Jones movie got really lost on their way to their promotion tour. So they start begging me for a ride. I've gotta tell you, I'm easily willed by a girl in distress. (Cecilia: Girl in distress? I had to get you into a full headlock before you'd take any of us aboard! Duster: Hey, sweetheart, who's telling the story here? Cecilia: Sweetheart? I can do worse than headlocks, you know! Brandon: Please! Both of you!) So I take them on board, you dig? The pigs are right behind us in those funny little bean cars! I tell Espeon here to take the wheel and I man the .50 in the back. (Cecilia: I give up.) It was one tough battle, let me tell you. Lots of times I thought we were gonna be goners for sure! Finally, it was just our truck and the best bean car driver ever. I mean it, too! No matter how good I aimed, he always maneuvered around just in time and shot some back. I knew we were driving near a canyon, and I was getting desperate. I took a hold of the wheel, put the pedal to the medal, hit a ramp and prayed to the man above. We flew a hundred yards and landed on the other side safely. The bean car didn't dare follow us any further. I figured we had to go to Fourside, seeing as how it was the closest place I had a connection at, if you can dig it."

"Too bad we overheated on the highway," Espeon said.

"Don't blame me! Those stupid pigs didn't take care of the thing!"

"And now we're here," Cecilia finished as she punched Duster, then Espeon in the ribs.

Brandon shook his fatherly head and drank the last of his ginger ale. "Now that we're all together, what are we going to do?"

"We're gonna fight the pigs," Krause answered.

The playful atmosphere that Duster conjured up hardened into a grim realization that the pigs and their allies were now waging a full-scale war against mankind and they were caught up in the middle of it, like it or not.

Duster, again, broke the silence. "Hey, ya'll are great, but I think I played my part. I'm a thief, not a fighter, and I got my dreams too…if you can dig it."

"Duster, I can dig it," Ricky said. "I wanna be back home in Einesville with all my friends, but I've got a world to save. Those pigs have done awful things, but they're just getting started. Krause here reminded me that the world's just too much to lose. If we don't fight these pigs, you can stuff your dreams in a mayonnaise jar and toss 'em down a certain creek. Heck, even if we lose, we can tell the folks on the other side that we went down putting up one hell of a fight."

"That's right," said Krause, then Espeon, then Brandon, then Cecilia, and finally a grumbling Duster. Something outside broke the rattle and hum of the Fourside afternoon. Ricky's blood was stirred the strange way it was back at the door to Sulfur Spring, and he walked over to the balcony, half-conscious. The famous skyline rose in the north, windows and polished stone gleaming in the sun like bright shields, but Ricky was staring at the mountains across the river. They seemed more than foreboding or ominous. Almost terrifying. As a cold wind lifted Ricky's matted hair, an awful, familiar voice called out to him.

"I see you, human whelp!"

Ricky uttered a strangled cry and some profane force flung him back into Espeon's arms. He reeled for a moment, then his whole body convulsed as he saw the bloated brain gurgling in its glass dome.

"First you shall watch me kill your brother. I wonder how much I shall have to manipulate his nerves before he screams like a little girl and froths at the mouth? Then I shall rip out his beautiful blue eyes, the ones his mother gave him. I have nearly forgotten the pain threshold of a human whelp…how long do you think he will survive?"

"Shut up! You won't!"

"You have given me a most splendid idea, whelp! When I am through with you, I shall take your skull, prop it up on a stick and make it say, 'Shut up! You won't!' I know the Good Human will be most entertained!"

"Shut up," Ricky said through grinding teeth. "I've beaten you once, and I can do it again. If you get near my brother, I'll…I'll turn you into pudding."

The grotesque brain sloshed about in what could've been apprehension.

"Go away," he said. Ricky pulled himself up to his haunches with all of his might, only to be hurled back harder than before. Pain shot through his skull and his back, but he opened one eye in defiance. The brain in the machine still floated before him, but it no longer dominated his vision.

"Go away!" yelled Ricky. This time he seemed to have hit one of his opponent's many nerves. The brain's juices not only gurgled, but also fogged up the dome.

"Insolent, foolish, defiant beast of the Earth!" it shrieked. "You have crossed me far too many times! I shall torture you like no other before you!"

The air around Ricky howled into a hellish vortex that the equally hellish machine dove into, its horrible robot screams tearing Ricky's ears. The thing finally vanished, and Boney's tongue brought him back into the little apartment room. Krause's worried and astonished face looked down at him.

"Bro…what just happened? You were saying a bunch of weird stuff."

Ricky looked up at his brother between his suddenly heavy eyelids. "That thing's coming for us, Krause."

**CHAPTER 3SHELLSHOCKED**

The abomination that just visited Ricky's mind was reeling, furious in its grotesque machine. It had never been that humiliated, or overpowered by a human in a very long time. Normally visions like the one it sent Ricky turned victims into gibbering morons for at least twenty-four hours, but the boy had driven it away with a simple command. The conclusion was equally simple. The twins were strong together, even if their small minds didn't grasp it. They supported, empowered and made each other far stronger than most normal humans.

"They must be separated."

It floated higher and he beheld the force that it had assembled in just a little more than a day. No thanks to the bumbling fools who passed for officers on this planet, of course. A thousand well-equipped shock troops from the base sat in circles, eating, smoking and playing cards. About six times as many irregulars – mostly local hicks who happened to have weapons – showed up. Three legions of war pigs (3,027, precisely) set up camp a few hundred yards away. A dozen battle-class flying saucers, remnants of Giygas's failed invasion twenty years before, were at his call. Men were positioning laser artillery in the mountains that would be able to hammer Fourside with dead-on accuracy. And if all else failed, there was always the Doomsday Gun…

"What am I waiting for?"

It faded from existence for a moment, then reappeared in a cave a hundred yards away in front of its senior lieutenant, a higher-ranking remnant of Giygas's Starmen Corps. It buzzed and saluted with a tentacle-like arm.

"Your worship?"

"Commence the attack on Fourside."

The Starman hesitated. "Your worship…are you positive? I mean! If we wait another day or two, we will be fully prepared for an assault!"

The juices that floated the brain bubbled. "The whelps are alive, lieutenant! They are in Fourside! If you question my superior judgment, nobody shall stop me from rewiring you with one of my many implements."

"Yes, your worship. Saucers will be off the ground in an hour, and the artillery will fire at your command. I will motivate the troops for the charge once the city is weakened. We will win, I can assure you."

"Then quit talking and get to your work!"

"Yes, your worship."

"One more thing! The whelps are mine. If either is found dead, I shall personally check to see if your pain circuits are in proper working order."

"Yes, your worship!"

The Starman vanished, then reappeared to give a quick salute before finally leaving. For the first time in as long as it could remember, the brain didn't threaten the minor insubordination with any kind of torture. It was too busy thinking (no, worrying) about the two whelps that posed such a threat to the new world order that was rising like a bloody moon. One had psychic ability – powers supposed to be insignificant next to the brain's centuries of practice – that bested him just a day earlier and cast him out of his mind just minutes ago. The other had a simple mind and barely a spark of psychic potential, but had the soul and heart of a thousand kings and could not be shaken by a nuclear blast as long as his brother was at his side.

"They must be separated," it repeated. It shut itself down into a state of deep mediation. If the whelps were to pay for crossing the greatest mind in the galaxy, it would need all its power…

Ricky sat in the shower, finally washing off the adventuring grime as well as the invisible but more potent dirt that comes with being on the receiving end of bad visions. The shower smelled funny and ran out of warm water after four minutes, but after his experiences it felt far more refreshing than any bath he took at home. Thoughts passed through Ricky's mind as the cold water pelted his hardened skin. The enemy would strike fast and hard, then that thing would come looking for him and his brother.

"Go ahead and come then. We'll be ready," he said aloud, then flushed, embarrassed for nobody in particular. _Watch out Ricky, or this crazy adventure just might turn you schitzo_. He turned off the water, dried off and put on his other change of clothes. The feelings of weakness and despair from the physically taxing encounter were fading fast, but he'd need something to eat before the inevitable confrontation. He stepped into the main room, where Krause and Brandon were finishing up telling Duster and Cecilia about the thing that they'd all fight very soon.

"Are you okay?" Cecilia asked while she petted Boney, genuine fear and concern written on her face.

Ricky smiled. "Never felt better, except I could use some real food."  
"The closest thing we got to that are some microwave beans and a box of ramen noodles," Espeon said, opening the refrigerator.

"That's better than beef jerky and peanut butter."

It was getting close enough to dinnertime, so Espeon and Cecilia decided to cook what passed as an early supper in a Fourside safe house.

"What did it say?" Krause asked Ricky as the rest of them sat around the trunk/coffee table.

"It's coming to get us real soon."

"You seem awful calm about it," Duster noted. "I mean! We shouldn't panic or nothing, but it looked like it was giving you quite a beating even though it wasn't even here! If you can dig it…"

"Things are gonna get ugly fast, Duster. Don't think I've been the first one to say it, but it's true. This thing is evil, maybe more than the pig king was, and it might be almost as strong. But I've beaten it twice, and I dunno if flukes can happen twice. So it's gonna come at us with everything it's got. We've gotta get ready for anything. This thing's wicked nasty, and it might tear this whole city apart until we're all dead."

"You _do_ sound awful calm about it, Ricky," Krause said.

"Listen up. So far we've been able to beat anything the Pig King – or whoever took over – has thrown at us. Maybe that prophecy's full of what makes the grass green, maybe not! But you've made me believe that we can beat this thing."

"But we've got to be careful," Brandon added.

"Of course. I have a feeling we're going to have to get what we can and leave here soon, and I'm a psychic."

Duster looked out the window. Below a tank and a squad of troops from the militia cleared the street as a low-flying jet rattled the building above. "What have ya'll dragged me into?"

After a quick dinner with minimal conversation, Duster pulled up a piece of carpet and opened a safe loaded with illegal weapons. Brandon stuck to his laser gun, Espeon slung an anti-personnel shotgun over his back in addition to his pistol and whip and Cecilia chose a light rifle. Krause picked an automatic pistol that he spun in his hand like any spaghetti western's idea of a gunslinger. Ricky picked up a heavy pistol, but hesitated and set it on the trunk.

"You gonna get a gun?" Espeon asked.

Ricky shook his head. "No, I think I'll stick with my bat."

Espeon looked at Krause, then spoke softer. "Kids should never have to take up weapons like that."

"No," Ricky agreed. "They shouldn't."

"I promised to protect you, Ricky. It was a long time ago, but in Summers we only lie to tourists. I'd feel horrible if I lost you or Krause again."

"I know how you feel, but I don't think I'll need a gun to win."

"Please take it. I know you're very gifted, but…I'd feel better if you took it."

Ricky looked at the gun on the trunk. He hadn't fired anything heavier than a pellet gun, and he was more likely to hurt himself than any pig if he tried to fire it. But empathy took over and he nodded.

"I'll take it for you."

Ricky strapped the hefty gun onto a belt, then fastened it around his waist. Duster was struggling to heft a rocket launcher, a sniper's rifle and a duffel bag over his scrawny shoulders while Boney jumped up on him, providing much-needed laughs before the confrontation.

"Come here, Boney!' Krause said after a minute or two. Duster finally secured his gear and stood tall despite the weight.

"Why didn't you do that sooner?" Duster asked, raising his arms with indignation. Another round of laughter swept the group, but this time a strange noise interrupted them and they fell silent, except for Boney's whimpering. A distant blast echoed outside and the building's foundation quaked for a moment. Espeon realized that he was holding Cecilia's hand, and the two gave each other an awkward smile before letting go.

"They've started already," Cecilia said, fingering her weapon. Brandon nodded helpfully and turned to the door as the emergency sirens blared.

"Where are we going?" Espeon asked.

"They're probably going to pound the bridges first to halt anything on the roads," Brandon said. "We ought to make for the docks. Duster, how well do you know this city?"

"I know where the docks are at…"

"We should split into two groups. Duster leads one and I lead the other. We meet up at wharf #4, the one that handles the ferry to the south side of the bay."

"Good thinking, chief," Duster said.

Another blast sounded outside, this one closer.

"Who's with who?" Brandon asked, clutching the gun tighter.

Of course, Ricky, Krause and Espeon stuck together, and Boney didn't want to leave the twins' sides. They were to follow Duster while Brandon would go with Cecilia.

"Kinda uneven, but whatever," Duster said as a pair of explosions rocked the city like an angry, stomping giant. Weapons in hands, they hustled down the stairs and into the mayhem outside. Wide-eyed militia in fatigues and kevlar helmets and equally frightened and uniformed cops were busy trying to direct the panicked traffic with the barrels of their rifles. The blare of the air raid sirens, car horns and the occasional shout that was able to top the chaos beat the group's ears like a bongo, and the twins weren't able to deny the fear welling up inside of them.

"Ready?" Brandon shouted over the din. Everyone nodded and braced as a fifth and sixth shockwave hit. Cecilia ran to Brandon's side and everybody else formed on Duster. Espeon turned to Cecilia.

"I'll see you there?" he shouted.

She nodded heavily and the two groups went their separate ways.

"Worship, the artillery are striking strategic locations with surgical precision! The western bridge and the police station took serious damage and the airport control tower has been flattened! There's significant damage to the main runways as well and things are going as planned!"

"Did I ask for a damage report?"

"No, your worship…"

"Do you think I care about bridges and police stations and airports?"

"No, your-"

"Then why do you waste my time with this drivel? Tell the artillery to keep doing their jobs. I shall personally attack when the time is right!"

"Yes, your worship! The saucers are ready for launch. Shall I give the order?"

"Yes, yes, why not? Order them to fire at will."

"Yes, worship!"

Ricky, Krause, Espeon and Boney followed Duster through the gridlock. Many people were leaving their cars and trying their luck on foot while a pair of motorcycles and a few bikes wove between the cars and authorities still tried to maintain some order. Duster held the rifle's butt in front of him, and was doing his best to clear a path through the growing crowd. A gray-bearded man clad in a cardboard sign jumped in front of them.

"It's over! It's over!" the man declared. "I told you, but you never listened! But NOOOO! He's just a crazy old coot! Well look at what's happening right now! Repent now, and you will be – OJEE! Pain!"

"Take a hike, killjoy!" Duster said, ramming the barrel into his gut. "We've got work to do! C'mon!"

A brilliant flash of blue light enveloped the world, and the screams ahead were soon drowned out by an enormous blast of heat and white light that burned through one's closed eyelids like the sun. When the glare was less blinding, Ricky found himself lying on the trunk of a famous yellow taxi. Ahead of him, a blazing inferno towered two stories and a column of death-black smoke billowed into infinity. Heart pounding, he rolled off the trunk and stood on two shaky legs. There was a pain in his left side and he felt dizzy, but he knew his fate could have been much worse.

"Krause!" he screamed.

"What?" Krause screamed back, albeit a bit muffled.

"Where are you?"  
"Somewhere dark! You sound nearby!"

"So do you!"

Ricky blinked at both the smoke and in thought, then laughed in spite of himself. He focused his mental power and flung the trunk open. He found Krause laughing too, maybe in spite of himself or maybe not.

"I grabbed a hold of you when I saw that light, and we both got flung back. I'm guessing I landed in the open trunk and you closed it when you landed on top of it. What're the chances of that, huh?"

"If that coot hadn't stopped us, we would've been toast…"

"Where's the others?" Krause exclaimed, bolting upright.

An elderly black woman with a lunatic's eyes ran by them, shouting, "Vietcong attack! Incoming bogeys six o' clock! Hit the deck!"

Ricky grabbed Krause and they dove to the burning-hot pavement to avoid a flaming tire that smashed through the taxi's roof. They looked up, but instead of buildings and overturned cars, there were tall hardwood trees and boulders. The acrid smoke turned into the familiar fragrance of the woods in summer and the fire's hellish roar turned into the rustle of animals and the singing of birds. Fourside was gone, and they were back in the woods in Einesville, playing paintball with their friends.

"We gotta get out 'fore the Vietcong hit us again!" Ricky barked militaristically.

"What? We still got men back there! We never leave a man behind!"

"That's the Rangers' motto. We're the 101st Airborne, remember?"

"Oh yeah…"

"What're you waitin' for? Move out, private!"

They climbed to their feet, held their weapons against their chests and hustled, stooped over for cover, through the concrete forest.

Espeon's eyes cleared and he smelled, then felt, his smoldering shirt.

"Fire! Fire!" he shouted, tearing the shirt off of his body and trying to stand up. He didn't get very far, because he was in a full dumpster. He would've kissed the pavement five feet below if he hadn't executed a last-minute defensive roll. Standing but reeling, he examined himself. Whip, check. Pistol, check. Rifle, no. Satchel, check. Limbs, check. Boots, check. And pants, check. He had just survived a laser artillery blast with not just the skin of his teeth, but also his pants, and not everyone could boast that. He was lucky today…

"Where's the others?" he said aloud. He had landed in alley not far from the blast that had turned into a wall of fire that would make most firemen wet themselves.

"Ricky! Krause! Duster! Boney!" he shouted. Of course they wouldn't answer. He unhooked his whip, gave it a lash to see if the fire hadn't ruined it, and ran into the open. At once he was overwhelmed by the carnage. Overturned cars littered the street like discarded soda cans, black bones and debris were strewn about like broken toys and the screams that rose above the flames' roar curdled the blood.

"You'll pay for this!" he shouted to the sky as another, more distant blast sent a small earthquake through the city. His eyes darted around. A few rugged, beaten survivors were fleeing at varying speeds, but two boys hustling around the street corner like soldiers caught his eyes.

"Ricky! Krause! It's Espeon!"

Of course they didn't hear him. He took off running as they vanished into the crowd on the sidewalk.

Ricky and Krause ducked into a thicket that seemed to sway in the wind like a chanting fanatic.

"We can hide out here and shoot 'em when they show up," Ricky said.

A small tree's branch swung like an arm and clubbed Krause's head before it rushed past them. "What was that? This ain't no thicket!"

"Keep your head on! We're moving out!"

A concussion sounded in the distance as they dodged through the angry thicket. Countless black trees that consumed the sunlight loomed over them, stomping every which way, some of them stopping to take a clumsy swing at each other or shoving the twins out of the way with their branches. Ricky threw himself against a cliff face, breathing through his mouth.

"Ricky!" screamed Krause as he ducked to avoid a sinister branch. "We've gotta get out of here!"

"They've turned the jungle against us!" was Ricky's response. His dark brown eyes gleamed like a tiger's. He drew his pistol and fired a round in the air, sending him off balance but clearing the trees around him. "Follow me! We're getting out of here!"

The twins dove through the gap in the hostile trees and out into a field of tight-packed boulders and the occasional tree swaying in the warm breeze.

"I don't remember this place!" Krause shouted. "What's going on?"

Ricky leaped onto a boulder, bat in one hand and pistol in the other. "Faster! They're right behind us!"

"Ricky, no! This ain't Einesville! This ain't even a field!"

"What is it then?"

"It's…" but he couldn't say anything else. Where _were_ they? It seemed to float just beyond Krause's conscience, slipping away every time he thought he had a good hold.

"Did I tell you to move or not? Watch your step! One slip between these boulders and you might break something!"

Krause uttered a desperate wail and crawled and jumped after his brother on the boulders that reminded him of cars and trucks.

"Cars and trucks?"

A familiar voice rose above the howling wind that probably wasn't the wind. Krause turned for a moment, and a smile and a laugh broke his face.

"Ricky!" Krause cried, pointing to the man standing on a truck-shaped rock maybe a hundred feet behind them. "It's Espeon!"

Ricky's burning, bloodshot eyes narrowed in rage. "Giddown! Commie at six o'clock!"

"What's wrong with you?" Krause screamed, throat raw. "This ain't paintball and it ain't Vietnam either! Snap out-"

He was silenced as Ricky raised his gun with both of his hands and stood in the firing position.

"No!" he managed to say. Time seemed to warp, and maybe it did. Krause turned to Espeon, who seemed to shout frantically. His brother's trigger fingers moved, and Krause rammed him with his shoulder. The muzzle flashed, the gunshot rang, and they both opened their eyes on the hot pavement below. Ricky looked up at his brother, scared eyes wide and a drop of blood running from his open mouth. At once, he threw Krause off of him and staggered to his feet.

"Espeon!" he screamed, looking at the truck in a traffic jam that had been a big rock in a field seconds ago. Neither the lone Vietcong nor Espeon stood on the cab. Ricky's mouth and eyes hung open in anguish as the drop of blood from his mouth turned into a trickle, forming a picture that said far more than a thousand words. The smoking gun clattered to the street and he bolted through the maze of cars. Krause shouted after him.

"Wait, Ricky! You might not've…"

But his brother now just another face in a crowd hurrying to either their doom or a bomb shelter. Krause tried to scream, but his voice croaked and he braced against a car, feeling more exhausted than he could ever remember feeling. He was past brooding. The world was collapsing around him and he had to do what he could. But what could he do now? He stared at the blue sky crossed with smoke, waiting for an answer.

Miles away, a brain cackled.

**CHAPTER 4RICKY SWINGS**

Ricky ducked out of the panicked crowd that was now being directed by a group of loud, hysterical militiamen and cops armed with riot sticks. Panting and puffing, he staggered into an alley and fell to his knees. How long had he run from his mistake? It could have been three blocks, or thirty. Everything looked the same in Fourside. The exact number was nine painful city blocks. He had shot his loyal friend those nine long blocks back because he thought he was Vietcong.

"I didn't shoot him," Ricky said to himself between labored breaths, as if whatever he spoke aloud was true. Another bitter tear burned his cheek. "I didn't shoot him…"

"That's denial, Ricky," a low, familiar voice from beside him said, "and it's really pathetic."

Ricky glanced over at the speaker and saw the knees of a pair of faded jeans, and looked up to see the wearer of these jeans also sported a very familiar trenchcoat and wide-brimmed cowboy hat.

"Flint?" he asked.

The tall figure frowned and placed his hands on his hips. "Who were you expecting, Carmen Electra? Look at you!" he bent down so he was lower to his nephew's face, but still looking down on him. "Ricky, you're the only one who can save the world that's being destroyed all around you, and you're crying in an alley. Worthless! Get up kid! You've got work to do!"

Ricky swallowed a painful lump. "Uncle Flint…I shot Espeon. Shot him!"

"Ricky, Ricky," Flint said, his tone of icy disgust melting into a gentle, soothing voice someone wouldn't expect to come from Flint. He leaned forward and embraced his nephew with very real arms. Ricky leaned his head against his uncle's comforting chest. Flint continued. "Ricky, everything in this world you love is hanging in balance right now. You have to fight. Stop running away. Your brother needs you. Your friends need you. So get up."

It was a moment before Ricky could say anything. He almost shed another tear, but he smiled and held it back. "Thanks, Flint."

"No problem," his uncle replied in his more usual skip-the-emotional-crap tone. He released Ricky and rose slowly, wearing a kind of sad grimace. "I can't stay for long. It's against the policies. I think my time's about up."

"Wait a minute!" Ricky said. "Before you go…"

"Yeah?"

"Do they have biscuits n' gravy on the other side?"

Flint nodded. "The best biscuits n' gravy you ever tasted. We're all waiting for you, Ricky. But don't over come too soon, you hear?"

A wide smile spread on his dirty face. "I won't let you down, Uncle Flint."

"You better not," he said, pulling the brim of his hat over his eyes, maybe to hide a tear. With that, he turned and walked, coat tails swishing, into the darkness. That was the last anyone on Earth saw of Flint Lee again. Ricky was on his feet, whipping out the baseball bat that only a little while ago seemed useless and unnecessarily heavy as if it were made of plastic. In seconds, he was back in the stampeding mob of spooked Foursidians being conducted by equally spooked cops. He dodged past an Asian family who scolded him in gibberish and ducked to avoid being brained by an officer wielding a truncheon at random while watching for another artillery strike before he made it off the sidewalk. The road was still a gridlock of cars, most abandoned, but it was far easier to navigate than a raging river of people. He raised his bat above his head as he wove through the dead cars, not for a heroic effect, but so he didn't get it caught on anything.

"I'm coming for you, Krause!" he said.

A kind of silence settled over Fourside. Then there was a hum that grew louder until curious shadows fell over the buildings lining the street. Ricky looked up, mouth open like a turkey in a rainstorm. By the fearful silence, he figured everyone else was doing the same thing.

"Oh my God! They got UFO's too!" someone shouted. The chaos picked up where it left off as if someone had flipped a switch, except now everyone was running from giant spinning silver saucers instead of laser artillery. Ricky didn't know which was worse, but he didn't care. He took off running like a deer.

"Krause, whatever you do, don't run! I'm coming for you, buddy!"  
He jogged into a halt as the road split. Which way had he turned at the intersection? Maybe left. Wait, no. There's a Smiley Burger at the corner. Ricky never remembered seeing a Smiley Burger, but then again, he was hustling most of the way with his head down.

"Crap," he moaned. That ominous, curious shadow fell over the intersection and an otherworldly hum raised over the screams of the crowd that was now breaking off the sidewalk to try their luck on the street. Ricky forgot that he was lost for a moment and gazed up at the massive flying saucer again. A round door at the center of the bottom slid open. For a few seconds, there was only the all-consuming hum. Then hell broke loose. A white beam as wide as the door struck the ground with a crack that rattled the windows of Smiley Burger and knocked Ricky against the door of a parked El Camino. When Ricky blinked the light away, there was no fire, but a modest horde of armored pigs standing where the beam had just hit. Ricky made a hasty left turn before the hogs could orient themselves and put their weapons to use. Gunfire and squeals rang out behind him. Several blocks ahead, another blinding beam of white hit the ground below a saucer, accompanied by another crack that assaulted Ricky's tortured ears.

"Hold on! Hold on!" Ricky said to both to himself and his friends. To his relief, most the crowds had already evacuated this residential street. He turned into the alcove of a row house, took a long breath and tapped into his psychic powers. Where was Krause? The world around him became even sharper. He could see the cracks in the glass of the window across the street, sift out most of the different things being burned in a fire two house down and the mayhem a block away sounded like it was happening just outside his ear. There was something else too – his sixth sense (if you will) was going into overdrive. His brother and Espeon were alive and well somewhere north. Brandon and Cecilia were still together, and they were not far at all. Duster and Boney were somewhere north, and above the ground. But there was bad news, too. Something vile, awful, and unfortunately familiar, was coming for him right now. He gasped and lost concentration as a vision of the hideous brain flashed in his mind's eye. And not a moment too soon.

"I see you!" the voice shrieked from behind him. Ricky leaped out of the alcove seconds before the double doors shattered into thousands of deadly splinters. The brain came through the cavity seconds later, whipping around faster than a machine should. A beam from one of the thing's spider legs destroyed the fire hydrant next to Ricky's landing spot. Ricky jumped, managing only to take minor shrapnel. He picked himself halfway up and scurried around to face his airborne opponent. His side burned where dozens of pieces of hot clay scored or dug into his skin, and he stood with a limp, gasping. But he still stood. His opponent let out a shrill mechanical laugh as it settled about three feet off the ground.

"Not so high and mighty without your little brother, now are you, whelp?"

Ricky grinned in spite of himself and clenched his fists around his weapon. "Cut the crap, freak show."

The bat swung, and the brain flipped out of the way at the perfect moment, letting out not one, but two beams that Ricky managed to avoid with a graceful sidestep. He swung again, this time missing one of his opponent's legs by a hair. As he took a step into the recovery, pain shot through his right bicep and then the rest of his body. Ricky yelped and stood frozen. One of the creep's legs was buried in his arm. His bat clattered to the ground as the first rush of blood left the wound.

"You're wondering if your muscle is torn and if any bones are broken," the brain intoned. "But you're not wondering how you can get out of this uncompromising situation. Maybe I overestimated you after all, whelp!"

"Shut up!" Ricky screamed. Before he knew it, he had focused his energy into his left palm and slapped his enemy away like a volleyball. The thing tumbled almost gracefully through the windshield of a van, and Ricky took the opportunity to try recovering. Hot sweat broke out on his face as he forced his arm to seal itself. Every damaged muscle, skin and bone fiber grew back in a matter of seconds. The stinging was like nothing else, but a neat scar replaced the once gaping puncture wound. His opponent was back in the air as if he hadn't just been flung through a windshield and a car seat.

"As you say," it said with a hiss, "cut the crap."

Ricky felt something – the brain – trying to grab him, crush the life out of him with sheer willpower. More sweat cascaded down his face as he fought the invisible force with all his might. He had never remembered feeling so hot, not even when he narrowly escaped being vaporized by a laser blast. There was no way he could resist for much longer. His ribs already creaked and groaned, and all his organs felt as though they were being stabbed. In his agony, he remembered Krause, then Flint, and Boney and Cecilia. An awkward pang of guilt hit him as he remembered his lingering distrust when he saw her at the hideout. She had saved his life when she didn't even know him, after all. More than anything at that moment (except maybe escape the grip of an extraterrestrial fiend), he wanted to find her, run into her arms and apologize with tears in his eyes. Then he'd promise to never accuse her of anything ever again. They'd both laugh and maybe go out to eat somewhere. Ricky let out a triumphant laugh and suddenly he wasn't being crushed anymore. Ribcage blazing with pain, he crumpled to the street and managed to look up to see what on Earth had just happened.

His opponent was stunned, reeling in midair. The juice that suspended the oversized brain looked near its boiling point as it sloshed madly in its case. Ricky saw his bat lying just a few feet away against the curb of the sidewalk, waiting to be picked up and bashed through the thin glass wall that protected that fragile brain from the outside world. He crawled towards it, reached for it with a feeble grasp. Whatever he had done to shake his enemy off had drained him even more. Ricky's whole body throbbed with brutal pain, and with his temperature, he probably should have been at home under an extra blanket reading comic books and sipping herbal tea instead of lying on a street in the middle of a war zone reaching for a weapon. But still, he grasped it with his fingertips and began to pull it towards him. His opponent was cooling down, and it would only be a matter of time before his window of opportunity closed forever. There would be no surviving another attack. The cold metal was both a relief and shock against his blistering hands. With a determined grunt, he summoned the strength to lift himself off the pavement. His own weight felt like a car, but somehow he was up on his own two feet and making his way towards his enemy, panting and leaning on his bat like a cane. Each labored step brought a moan, but it also brought him ever closer to his prone enemy. He could end this forever with one fell swing.

"I won't let you down, Flint," he croaked with a smile. "I promise."

As he said this, the brain sprung back to life with a wail that nearly knocked Ricky back over. He gripped his bat with both hands and kneeled, ready to strike with the last of his draining energy.

"Stupid, worthless human whelp! You shall suffer! Suffer!"

It juices were still boiling when it tore towards Ricky, and its artificial life seemed to be kept by sheer rage alone. The sickly brain surged with undead energy as it drew within meters of Ricky. He imagined himself as a batter in the big league, and he was the last hope their team had at winning. They were down one point, but there was a man on second base. The pitcher threw a fast ball, and this swing would determine whether or not his team would advance to the World Series. But this was no ordinary fast ball. The pitcher was using one of those new balls that looked kind of like a pissed off mechanical spider wreathed in flames. The fans were chanting his name like mad cultists before a bloody sacrifice. Fresh energy flowed into his arms from somewhere and he lifted the bat. Tranquillity fell over the stadium and a small, still voice said:

_When good fights evil, who do you believe will triumph? Do you have faith that light will overcome darkness in the end of all things?_

"Yes," Ricky answered, foolishly because he knew he wasn't meant to answer it. He smiled; fixing his eyes on the screaming fast ball, and stepped in to give his best swing. The two forces connected with not a crack, but an ear-splitting crash and a shockwave that send Ricky staggering. His eyes shut and his teeth locked. The stadium roared back to life and the announcer hollered into his microphone.

"It's high in the center field! Will it go over? Ladies and gentlemen, home run for Ricky Lee! And the Einesville Underdogs will move on to their first ever World Series appearance, where they'll face the War Pigs from Hell! Yes, this is looking to be the best match-up any of us may ever see! Run home, Ricky! Run home!"

Ricky knew it was over, for now. But there would be much harder games ahead. The War Pigs from Hell were going to be tough and the team would have to pull together and come up with a winning strategy. In the meantime, he would have to run home. All the way home. Ricky dropped his broken bat and ran to first. He only managed a few exhausted steps before he slumped to his knees, then spread-eagle onto the sweltering pavement. God he was hot…

**CHAPTER 5THROUGH THE STORM**

"Oh geez…" Duster moaned.

Smoke drifted in the otherwise perfect blue sky above him as he set about to finding where the heck he was. It wasn't long before he found out that he was floating on his back in a swimming pool on top of a building. He yelped in surprise and nearly turned over as he was showered by water. Boney stood on the edge of the pool, his mildly singed hair standing on end after shaking himself off.

"Boney, you sonuvagun! Look what you got us into this time!"

Duster realized the foolishness in what he said as he took heavy steps towards the ladder. They had been hit by laser artillery – something the beagle had absolutely no control over – and the two of them were lucky to be alive. As he crawled out of the pool, he realized that he ought to feel very hot after narrowly escaping being cremated alive. Instead he a felt only a mild chill.

"Okay. What now?"

He might have escaped with his life, but not with his clothes. Duster looked down and realized that he was stark naked. Of course, with his clothes went his high-powered assault rifle with a very expensive military scope, the rocket launcher that he personally smuggled into the country on his first assignment and his prized green duffel bag that held too many things to mention. If Duster was sentimental, he would've probably would've taken a minute to mourn the loss of practically everything he owned. Instead, he looked around sheepishly for something to make himself decent. He found a towel hanging on the railing. As he reached over to pick it up, he saw the massive fire caused by the laser and remembered that the lives of three people – and that darn dog – relied on him leading them to dock #4. His stomach churned as he dried himself off as quickly and possible and wrapped the towel around his waist. He turned to Boney, who looked up at him with big, expectant brown eyes.

"What do you want?" he said. "I ain't no hero. I don't even know what I'm doing. Can you dig it? Of course you can't. You're a dog for crying out loud! All you hear is a bunch of baby talk! Blah blah yada yada gootchie gootchie-goo."

Violent ripples disturbed the pool as an explosion rocked the street five stories below. Duster was again reminded that lives hung in balance while he stood on the side of a pool talking to a dog.

"C'mon, boy. We gotta go find the others!"

At the corner of the roof stood a small structure that was presumably above a stairwell. Duster flung the door open and got a face full of smoke. He cringed; coughing and shielding his stinging eyes.

"Looks like we've gotta find another way to skin this kitty, huh, boy?" he said, making his way out of the smoke. Boney just whined as gunfire burst in a nearby alley. Duster let out a rattling sigh, thumbs hooked on the hem of his faded pink-and-yellow towel as he scanned the rooftop for a way down. He was a thief, and if he was as good as he claimed to be, he wasn't going to die on a rooftop wearing a towel and only an old beagle for company. In addition to a couple of lounge chairs and a trashcan on the edge, there was an inflatable raft floating in the middle of the pool. He walked over to the edge and peered over again. The fire spread on the streets below as a few screaming remnants ran for their lives. But just one floor below a thick clothesline ran from Duster's building to its neighbor across the street. An explosion from underneath him caused a mighty tremor, and Duster braced against the barrier. The building would not last long.

"Okay, Boney," he said, not turning away from the clothesline that his wild improvised plan relied on, "I think I found our big getaway."

He turned, his heart pounding like a racehorse on a track, and reached in the pool to scoop out the raft. It was inflated firmly. He checked the wind direction before positioning it on the edge. Duster undid his towel and grabbed Boney. Then he stood above the raft perched five stories above a fire, feeling a little bit like a man contemplating suicide.

"I'm not a praying man, Lord," he whispered. "And with all the things I've done, I probably deserve to be splattered and burned up down there. But please, if it's just so I don't let the other guys down, let me live. Can you dig it? I promise I'll go to church and give up smoking and drinking and - "

A gust of wind, more likely from the current caused by the inferno than divine intervention, picked up the raft. Duster snatched it and climbed on as it drifted, then plummeted through the air. Smoke blurred Duster's eyes and attacked his lungs. They came to an abrupt stop and Duster, clutching Boney under one arm, threw his towel around a cord that dug into his naked side and fastened it as best he could. There was a creak, and soon the two of them were moving again. It was a really funny sight, a naked man holding a beagle in his armpit, gripping a towel wrapped on clothesline and sliding on a pool raft down a tangle of wires. Luckily for Duster, nobody saw him do it. And luckier still, he ended up crashing through an open patio door and onto a carpet. He opened his eyes after a minute, blinking out the smoke. A cry of victory tried to make its way out of his mouth, but all that came out was a hacking cough and a puff of black smoke. With trembling arms, he pulled himself to his feet and realized his had the worst carpet burns of his life, cuts on his legs, arms and abdomen, a bloody thumbnail and a developing bruise on his shoulder.

"Not bad…" he wheezed.

Boney was curled up on a knocked-over couch a few feet away, shaking like a leaf on a tree, but otherwise okay. Duster's towel was nowhere to be seen. He looked around his landing place a little. It looked like a regular middle-class apartment, right down to the 32-inch TV and hospital white refrigerator. Duster closed the patio door and hurried to gather what he'd need from here on out. It didn't look like anybody had come back home to gather things for the evacuation. He stopped in the bathroom to apply some ointment to his cuts and salve to his burns and used up the few Band-Aids left in the cabinet. In Mom and Dad's bedroom, he realized how few skinny people were left in the world. An old pair of low-ride jeans on the wife's side fit him well enough, and he threw on a white t-shirt laying on the dresser that hung on him like a choir robe. Something shiny that was underneath the shirt caught his eye. At first he thought it was a lipstick tube, but then he realized that it was a shotgun shell. He grabbed it and looked at the most likely place for a family like this to keep a shotgun – under the bed. It was waiting for him, along with a sling and three dusty shells. He opened the action, put in the shell, collected the others and slung it over his back. No shoes in the room looked like they would fit, but he knew he was lucky to have what he did. On his way out, he glanced at himself in the mirror and laughed in spite of himself. A tall, lanky, barefoot redhead covered in Band-Aids, scrapes and burns wearing a shirt two sizes too large, girl's jeans and carrying a 12-gauge on his back. All that was missing was a funny hat. Another jarring explosion reminded him to get moving, and he did. He grabbed a rucksack from the kid's room and filled it with food from the hospital-white refrigerator as inevitable smoke began flowing from the ventilation. Before running out the door with Boney, Duster grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the counter, took a much-deserved swig and packed it away. The hallway was empty as he ran for the stairs. Fire was eating the lobby quickly, and as Duster ran out the door holding Boney in his arms, the ceiling collapsed with the roar of a rudely awakened dragon. Before he could get his bearings, a cop hustled him along with a baton, telling him to join the noisy crowd and not worry about the strange shadow falling over him.

"Holy crap…" he said as a gleaming silver saucer hummed a hundred feet above them and moved on to more important parts of the city. Duster began scanning the crowd for anyone he knew. He called out, but it was consumed in the chaos. He was pushed along until he spotted familiar jet-black among the cars parked in the streets.

"Espeon!" he shouted in vain, dodging through the crowd and maneuvering through the mess of cars. Espeon leaned against a truck, cradling his shoulder while Krause stood beside him in a daze

"Oh geez!"

Krause somehow heard him over a spray of bullets and a death squeal and turned with a jump. When he realized who it was, he jumped again, but with more joy than shock. Duster ran over to him, feet blistering on the pavement that he could probably fry an egg sunny-side up on if he wasn't in such a hurry to escape.

"Duster! Espeon, he…" the words poured from Krause's quivering mouth as Duster ran past him to attend to his injured friend.

"Hey, it's me!" he exclaimed.

"I know," Espeon said without a hint of irony, clasping the injury on his shoulder with a pale, twitching hand. A slug whistled past them and shattered the truck's windshield. The three hit the deck with varying grace and Boney crawled under the truck, whimpering softly.

"I'm gonna need to see it," Espeon said over the chatter of broken glass.

Gritting his teeth in painful reluctance, he withdrew his hand and Duster braced himself. Being a professional thief for a few years had given him a generous share of gruesome scenes, but gunshots had always made his stomach flip, especially when the victim was someone he'd grown to like. Without going into too much graphic detail, the bullet had lodged itself underneath the shoulder socket, and blood still flowed. Duster took a wad of his shirt, pressed it into the wound and wrapped it around the shoulder. He would remove the lead later, of course, because doing too soon would be unsafe and provoke more bleeding.

"Duster," Krause said in a kind of calm mumble, bloodshot eyes lolling back and forth. "Ricky shot him. Thought he was Vietcong. I tried to stop him. I did."

None of this made much sense to Duster, but he pulled the boy in for a quick hug.

"Don't worry kid, it's all gonna be okay."

Krause pointed down the street. "Ricky ran that way…I don't know where he is."

Something like a moral crisis set in, which normally would've given Duster a headache. But this was serious. An injured friend who needed to be rushed to safety and a delirious kid separated from his twin brother. Which came first? At the intersection ahead, a city bus with a missing tire plowed into an advancing pig and smashed him against a building, where it stopped dead and burst into flames. Duster made up his mind.

"We're getting Espeon to safety first!"

Taking the remainder of his shirt, he wrapped his feet up and made himself look even more ridiculous. Ricky was a good kid. A little spooky, but a good kid, and the kind of person who could easily take care of himself. None of this helped kill the guilt in his gut as he helped Espeon to his feet and told Krause to hurry up.

"Where're we going?" Espeon asked.

Good question. Where was a safe place to go in a city under attack? A giant coffee cup that once advertised a hip place to drink expresso crashed on the sidewalk, dispersing the thinning crowd.

Jackie's Café!

"Krause! You came out of the sewers from a manhole in Jackie's Café, didn't you?"

He nodded, fingering his holstered pistol like a nervous gunslinger.

"Let's hide out in the sewers until this thing passes over," he said as if the war would blow by like an afternoon thunderstorm, "can you dig it?"

"Yeah."

There would be a storm drain nearby. With any luck, he'd be able to pry off the lid. He drew his gun and wove through the frozen cars, leading his friends and an undeserving beagle with blind faith. A panicked family raced past them when the reached the sidewalk, followed by two snarling pigs with bloody swords. Espeon unloaded a shell into one at point-blank range and ended his fun. The other turned, eyes beady with porcine fury, and swung his blade. Espeon met it halfway with the shotgun barrel and plunged the muzzle into his nose. If the thing were loaded, he would've ended the pig's life very messily. Instead he drew the gun back, and as the pig reeled, delivered a crushing blow to the skull that sent him to the pavement forever.

"That's right," Espeon said, not caring that he was tough-talking a dead pig. He reloaded the shotgun as he ran, leading the others and feeling like a skinny, urban Rambo. A storm drain lay ahead, complete with a manhole. The general panic in this area was at a lull, so in his Rambo mindset, he blasted the manhole clear off its supports and pushed it away. A steel ladder led into a dark, empty pipe about seven feet below.

"Can you shimmy down it?" he asked Espeon without turning.

"Don't worry," he said with a pained grunt.

Duster slung the gun over his back, grabbed Boney, and led the way once again. Espeon followed one-handed, fell the last three feet and shrank into a cramped corner.

"Come down, Krause!" Duster shouted to the light above. "Krause!"

The rush of confidence he'd been operating on burned out and his heart jumped into his throat. He set Boney down and scrambled up the ladder, looking around for any sign of the boy. But he was gone, gone, gone.


End file.
